


This is Fine

by Kalla_Moonshado



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Disjointed, Emotion suppression, Gen, Headcanon, Lore Gap Repair, Moments, Snippets, Stream of Consciousness, Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalla_Moonshado/pseuds/Kalla_Moonshado
Summary: Title from the popular meme.This is my headcanon spew of Khadgar's life from the time he began studying with the Kirin Tor up until now, where he stands on the Broken Shore in Deliverance Point in 7.2.





	This is Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes are from quests/The Last Guardian, not all dialogue consists of quotes.  
> The Horde champions he works with are my Holy Priest Briyanna Soleilin-Lakirr, and my fiance's Prot Paladin Selarcis Sunfire, used with his permission. Their names are not used.

 

Solace came in dreams. Or simply in sleep.  When he slept, he could not be thinking, and his hands could not itch to _do_.

Barely a few months since his testing, and he was found to channel magics with the ease of breathing. Unconsciously anyway. Magic sang in his veins as surely as his blood.

His curiosity was more than a cat’s and he drank in knowledge and learning like a sponge draws water.  He called fire within a week.  He set his room on fire (the first time) a month later.  A week after this, he learned how to call frost, and promptly iced the pond over in his zeal.  The statue in the courtyard glowed for two days straight when he learned to call arcane bolts.

But in dreams, he was much more… controlled.  In dreams, he was always reading. Studying. Learning.  His fingers were as stained with inks of all colors as they were as they clutched his blanket to his chest.

There was one severe problem with the boy the Kirin Tor tried to teach – and it had nothing to do with his abilities, instincts, intelligence or his desire to learn everything there was to learn.

He could not control his emotions.

Anger and frustration resulted in outpourings that left him burned or frostbitten, his surroundings scorched or blasted, and the boy himself, laying in the middle of the wreckage, shaking with reaction that would have him bedridden for days.

He would ooze when he was upset or sad, and he was prone to bouts of depression if he could not accomplish what he wanted, or failed what he tried.  This usually resulted in random reactions, the first of which blew apart one of the alchemy labs… and he learned that day that fire, when mixed with an infusion of refined, clear oil infused with Firebloom and Dragonstooth resulted in an explosion – instead of the infusion blending harmlessly with the powdered Liferoot and grave-moss to produce a common powder often infused with arcane magic to be used as a spell component.  The explosion threw him back into a wall, and after a severe lecture from his instructor (who suffered little more than being shaken up, having encased herself in a block of ice the instant she saw his aura change), he was put into the infirmary until his broken arm could be seen by a Healer.  The Healer noted his aura shifts, and a note was made of “mental instability”.

Mental instability was not uncommon in older mages – it didn’t addle them at all, just made them seem so, as their minds whirred faster than even they could keep up with.

In a boy of thirteen, it was unprecedented.

He was sent to a Healer to learn to control his emotional outbursts.

He learned control – but not the way anyone thought he would.

He buried it – all of it.  He was a blank slate; an emotionless mask, other than when he was truly startled or taken off guard.  And joy died that day in his heart.

 

His favorite time was night.  The Violet Citadel slept, though one soul would at that time prowl, eyes alight with curiosity, a lantern in one hand, and his feet clad in slippers that would make no noise against the polished marble floors.  A touch of a spell and a bladder of oil kept doors and windows and ladder casters silent as he moved through the libraries, reading by the lantern, sometimes on the ladders themselves, drinking in the words on forbidden pages like dry soil soaks in rain.

Of course, knowing things he should not resulted in another explosion in a more advanced alchemical reaction, and this time, he was confined to the infirmary for blood loss, severe burns, and the possible loss of his sight.

The scars faded, his eyesight was unharmed, and he was as weak as a kitten for a week until his body replenished the blood lost against the white tiled floor of the laboratory.

Fear gripped him then, and the chill that exuded from him healed his burns in record time leaving minimal scarring, which amazed the Healers tending him.

Fear was ruthlessly forced away once he was healed, and another emotion was denied.

 

He leaned against the doorframe, out of sight, listening, hard, to a conversation two of the elders were in the middle of when he approached, having a lesson with one of them.  He remained out of sight, until his gasp of shock echoed into the room, and he made as if he had only heard the last few words, and he was eyed suspiciously.

It was not the last time.

 

He was assigned to put away a series of books taken out by some of the masters, and his curiosity got the better of him, as he opened and skimmed each of them before sliding them into their empty slots on the shelves.

At least until one of them exploded, throwing him off the ladder, and the crunch he heard when he landed sent pain lancing up his spine.

He claimed the book had opened when he nearly dropped it.  Considering the book wasn’t trapped when it was removed from the library, it was determined it was trapped after. Guzbah gifted him a little cricket to carry on such assignments – to make sure he was more careful with any book stacks the cricket whistled at.

He lay in the infirmary waiting for his hip to stop hurting where they had popped it back in, inspecting the tiny insect with awe.  And he kept it with him any time he was in the library afterwards.

 

Other students, less advanced than he, often tried to play tricks or pranks on him.  The last came as he was soaking his weary body at the end of a long day of exams.  The water was soothing on his skin, and the herbs infused within it were slowly relaxing tense muscles, and letting him recover his mana, as well as his strength.  The exam had been grueling – full power arcane elementals, intent on tearing him apart with pure magic. One, then two, then four, then eight, then from all sides, countless as they advanced.  He had managed to repel them, but just as he forced the last one back with a weak but well aimed fireblast, he had looked around and saw no others advancing.  The adrenaline had drained from him, and he had collapsed. He was sent to take a long hot soak, given a packet of herbs to put in the water itself, then prescribed another herbal packet to drink as tea once he had returned to his room after his bath.

The image came at him from behind, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled as he felt the rise of arcane magic behind him.  Exhausted, body weary, mana drained, control and nerves frazzled, he reacted to the image of an elemental, blasting the bathing room before he realized it was illusion.

He spent another night in the infirmary, but did get to listen to the dressing down of the one who had caused the damage – and he wasn’t blamed.  The stripe of white in his hair never faded afterward; a reaction of his exhausted body to the power he called.

 

He approached the council chamber, his slippers making no noise as he moved, the skirt of his longer, more formal robe clutched in one hand so he would not trip.  He stopped and raised his hand to knock on the door, and then caught the conversation within.

“Perhaps, it’s time we sent a representative to the Guardian again, to see if he’ll take one of the students.”

“One of the students.” A snort. “You mean Khadgar. He’s too resourceful, too curious for his own good, and he knows far too much.”

“Yes, well. He may not make the journey. Either way, he’s out of our hair and not finding things out that no one should know.”

A short, mirthless laugh. “The Guardian could take care of him for us, if it comes to it. How many have disappeared without a trace?”

“That’s a touch cruel don’t you think? He’s a human being, not an animal for slaughter.”

“And you don’t find his intimate knowledge of our comings and goings disturbing?”

Another snort. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was listening to us right now.”

“Let him.  If he’s going to spy on the Guardian for us, die on the way there, or be killed by whatever the Guardian does to him, so be it. Let him know the truth.”

“That’s horrible. He’s only a boy.”

“A boy who, for the last ten years, has ransacked the library, blown up two laboratories and managed to scour the tiles out of one of the bathing rooms.”

“Is it a crime for a student to be curious now?”

“No, but I’m not so sure about the vows he swore, either. I’m not sure we can hold his silence much longer.  He’s going to say something to the wrong person and everything we are may be in danger.”

“Send a courier then.  Tell the Guardian we have an exceptional student that he may wish to consider.  The Light knows we can’t have him here anymore.  Dalaran would be in danger, let alone the Citadel.  Hellfires, he’s probably a danger to himself and anyone who comes into contact with him.  With any luck, we’ll never see him again.”

“He should be here soon.  With any luck, he’ll take the bait.  It’s an honor after all, to be chosen to be possibly sent to the Guardian.”

“And if the Guardian refuses?”

“We’ll find another way.”

Khadgar steeled his nerves, set his mask of emotionless firmly on his face, and knocked.

 

It was after midnight, and the Violet Citadel slept – at least most of it. Khadgar paced his room, his body shaking with violently suppressed fear and rage.  He finally threw his hands in the air, and quickly suppressed the surge of Arcane that accompanied the gesture.  He scanned the shelves in his dormitory room and finally seized a book from the shelf, and tossed it to his bed.  He stripped, laying his clothing over the chair next to his desk and crawled into bed, opening the book to where it was marked by a blue ribbon, and let his eyes take in the archaic script there.  He was being sent away in two days’ time. To the Guardian. To Medivh. In Karazhan.

Because he was a liability.

His hands itched as he longed to do something to ease the conflict of emotions warring in his head, his chest and the rest of him.  The book snapped closed, and he stood up, pacing again, this time uncaring that his window was open and he was stark naked.  Energy sparked around him as he tried to gain control of himself.  He would not set his room on fire. Again.  He would not cause another explosion like the mishap in the bathing room either – though to be fair, one of the other students had startled him while he was trying to soak out muscle aches from tension after a grueling test.  He reacted as though he were still being tested, with force enough to throw back arcane constructs.  The fact that the force of it stripped the tiles out of their grout and the tub was now three feet from where it started and through a wall was just happenstance.

His chest felt tight, and he closed his eyes, trying hard to call into mind breathing exercises that would calm him.

They didn’t care if he died.

It’s not like they didn’t pull him from the orphanage after he was offered like a sacrificial lamb to the city.  He would have a better life here, they told him.  A life that looks like they were trying to end it before it began.

He dropped back down onto his bed, and lay back against his pillows.  Emotion bubbled up within him, and his body found release in the only way he would let it.  The heat against his temples ran into his hair, and he bit his lip to remain silent.

Worth nothing to his family.

Worth nothing to his teachers or peers.

What would the Guardian think of him?  Probably the same.  Oh, he was sure they’d send references that he was a model student, advanced in everything they could think of, but this was the Guardian – an entity who would decide on his life from now on, an entity that could, with a thought, obliterate him on the spot and his name would be stricken from the Kirin Tor records as surely as Arrexis had been.

He turned over and buried his face in his pillow, letting the tears soak into it and shook with silent sobs. He refused to admit it to anyone else, but he was petrified with fear.

He was being sent away to die.

 

Khadgar dismounted from his horse, stumbling as he did so, and was caught by gentle hands of someone from the caravan he traveled with, knowing riding fatigue and the possibility of saddle sores well.  The Healer had then given him something that smelled sweetly of roses and Mageroyal, cinnamon and marigold, and advised him to use it only before he slept.

The sores were gone by morning, but his embarrassment upon waking was … unbearable.  He added ground Liferoot the moment he could, and confided in the Healer what he had done, and why.  The Healer stared at him for a moment, and asked his age, and then had apologized profusely.

He boarded the ship with a decent supply of the salve, modified.

 

He ached.  His entire body felt like he had stretched it too thin, and he stumbled as he walked towards the beacon of the rest of his life’s destiny. His blue eyes were dull as he took in the tower, and started forward; it would take him the better part of the afternoon to reach it yet, and he wasn’t sure even now that he was going to make it.  He itched. He ached. His feet felt tight in his boots, and the traveling clothing he wore had seen better days.  The only thing he could wish for was less chafing – road dust was everywhere, and chafed in places he wasn’t sure he could stand.  Yet he did.  He had to.  His future, however long or short, was here.  And he was alive to see it.

 

He woke with a start, the silence of the library pressing down on him oppressively.  Was he dreaming? Was it a vision?

A sigh, then shuffling footsteps near the door made him look up.  It was after sunrise.  He swore, pulled his face off the book that he had fallen asleep on, stretched his back, and made his way downstairs for breakfast, changed his mind, and decided he should wash up first.  He reversed his steps and headed toward a different staircase.

Not the first time, and not the last time he would sleep in the library silence, not the last time he would wake himself up and find he had drooled on his notes, or worse, one of the books of Karazhan’s extensive library.

 

Nightmares were never really an issue – at least until he arrived here.  His first misplacement was bad enough to give him nightmares of what appeared to be an older version of himself, looking him in the eye and finding him wanting.  Wanting for what? What was it he was supposed to do?

His dreams of searching down endless corridors, hunting for something elusive were more exhausting than nights spent in the library. His dreams of finding books that threw him backwards and finding him waking on the floor of his room were worse.

He woke up half on the floor, this time, his legs tangled in the bedding – and still on the bed.  He couldn’t feel his feet.  He lifted his head, eyed the tangle, and his head fell back with a soft thump on the floor.  He contemplated levitating the blankets away, thought better of it, and wormed his way out of them, stood up, and with the aid of his desk chair, stretched and paced until his feet actually had blood in them again.

It was going to be a long day.

 

Long day turned into long week as he began noticing subtle changes in his mentor.  His sleep was disturbed more often, and a sense of needing to find something out before it was too late weighted his shoulders as though he was constantly carrying a rucksack of bricks.

When he finally managed to crawl under his blankets, his mind was so full that it was going numb.

It felt oddly… good.

 

His back ached, and his hands hurt.  He inspected one hand by lamplight and muttered a curse as he dug out his scribe’s knife and pried a splinter out of his palm.  That demon had come from somewhere.  He wasn’t imagining it. She had seen it. They had killed it…

And before they could even try to explain – it was gone. Without a trace.

So much for all the work he’d done in the library.  At least he wouldn’t have to go back through trapped books and find out what was safe to handle and what wasn’t… and this time, he had help.

 

Dread gripped him as he woke.  Today was just.. not right. Something felt off. Something felt wrong.

It wasn’t until the circle was drawn and the vision called that all of his dreads, his fears, his speculations came to him in vivid detail.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.

He shoved down every emotion that came to him before more than a single cry could escape.  He couldn’t stop the shock, but he could push down the betrayal he felt, the pain, the…

And he was there, dual shadows mocking them, and there was no time to feel, only act.

 

He was exhausted. He felt the need to strangle something. Or someone, but strangling a monarch was not generally viewed as acceptable.  Sleep would not come. Dreams were ruthlessly forced away.  He longed for a cup of willow bark tea to ease his aching head.

He had begged, pleaded, reasoned, and all but screamed his information to those who needed it and still.. still… He rubbed his temples, and ignored the ache in his heart.  This was not going well – especially after the stupidly long trip to GET to Stormwind to begin with. And now this.  Nearly killed.. how many times? Three? Four? He lost count – especially when he was nearly killed by Stormwind’s own.  Thank the _Light_ for Lothar showing up when he did.  He expected both he and Garona would be on the side of the road or sleeping under the ground by now otherwise…

He looked up, his mind processing the last question, and he opened his mouth to answer. Again.

 

He felt as though the past weeks had aged him years.  He wanted nothing more than to go back to Dalaran and sleep for a month, yet he found himself edging down a spiral staircase, so familiar, yet unfamiliar, and his heart pounded in his chest.  He had already ruthlessly shoved emotion away.  What had to be done had to be done or there would be no peace for anyone at all.

He didn’t expect what had to be done would be up to him.

_Keep him talking. Give them time._

And then the pain. The pain… and for the first time in many years, he felt it – physical, mental, emotional, in rapid succession.

Robbed of his youth, robbed of his friends, he did the only thing he could think of… It was up to him to finish it.  His hands trembled as he shifted the grip on the unfamiliar blade.

And turned.

“Don’t even blink.”  His mind railed as he heard his own voice speaking, as he held the blade steady.

He shoved down the pain. Shoved down the panic.

Tried to push away the pain of betrayal.

 

Years blurred together.  One moment, he woke in Dalaran, and the next he was raising his staff and chanting, watching a portal – THE portal. The Dark Portal – imploding upon itself.

And he was on the wrong side of it.  And his entire world turned upside down.

 

Time had little meaning now.  His days were spent in learning and research of a different kind, and his heart was lighter.

On the outside. Even on this ruined world, there was little to—

That was odd… He knew that feeling.  But it couldn’t be possible.  It was destroyed, and he had seen to it that it would not reopen…

He didn’t recognize hope when it rose in him.

 

Azeroth seemed … alien to him after so long in a shattered world.  He limped heavily into Dalaran, feeling as though he was far older than he was.

Dalaran had changed.

Drastically.

He could not find the energy to mourn at first. But, he did what he could to let himself do so when he did have the energy to do so.  Friends gone, mentors gone; he was a stranger in a place he called home.

And everyone kept their distance, at first.  Who was this eccentric old man who wandered the streets as though he knew them, only to find he didn’t? Who was this stranger who acted as though he knew the Violet Citadel as though it had been his home?

Those who remembered him stared at him.

He shoved away the disappointment they had in seeing him reduced to …. This.

 

Enough was enough.  It was one thing to move the city, but to somewhere so cold that his bones ached just moving to and from … well, best not to even think that way.  It may not have felt all that cold, but his bones knew cold, and hated it.

There had to be something to stop this. Something. Something somewhere that would reverse some of the effects he had suffered for so many years.

Perhaps… perhaps Karazhan held an answer.

Tomorrow, perhaps… he couldn’t face going back there today. Not yet.

Years had not erased the memories enough for him to face it.

 

The rumors said the Horde was being purged from Dalaran.  This was madness – but what say did he have?  He could only watch and turn away, disgusted. He could not let this go on.  He hated orcs and all they stood for once, but he knew – now – that there was so much more to them.  He had spent time in Garadar. Spent time with those that followed “the old ways”, and they were a peaceful people.  He had not seen one, in his time in Northrend, start any issues in Dalaran’s streets. 

These … heroes.. champions, these men and women of all races of all walks of life knew to put aside their differences, and he thought, perhaps, there might be a chance that Horde and Alliance may one day be memories of the past, and not something brawled over on a constant basis over petty nonsense.

… He didn’t feel like thinking about this.  He could use a drink.

He didn’t realize his back and legs did not ache when he got up, and blamed it on the fact that his heart and head were too full.  Jaina had truly overstepped her authority – but who was he to argue?

Maybe he could use more than just a drink. Two would be nice.

 

Enough. Enough was enough was enough. That portal had caused him enough trouble, and it was time to end it, once and for all.  No one else could possibly... none could… But he was old and feeble – what could _he_ do about it?

He paced, and as he paced, he suddenly realized it… he didn’t hurt. Had simply living in the city restored him?  Impossible.

He avoided mirrors on principle.  His beard was easy enough to keep trimmed without one – he could see it clearly enough.  His hair was long enough to care for without one.

A long forgotten feeling bubbled up in his chest: Curiosity.

He stepped into the bathing room in his suite, and pulled the cloth from the mirror.  Pale blue eyes stared back at him, but they were not “old”. Some of the skin damage of age was reduced.  He looked at his hands.  Some of the age spots had faded, and he wondered if they were his.  He turned them, and saw the familiar ink stains, and knew them to be his.

Perhaps… Perhaps…

He had a shaving kit somewhere. Or he could just visit the barber shop the goblins had set up.  Perhaps someone there would know what he needed.

He had not been out in the city in months.  He figured he must look a sight, and tried to ignore anyone who looked at him.  He missed the lower voices of the Horde peoples in the city.  Tauren laughed softly, but their rumble was infectious.  Orc song was sometimes a bit crude, but the emotion in them was genuine.  He didn’t much miss the Forsaken’s … interesting scent, though their humor was often a great source of some of that Tauren laughter, and more than made up for it – especially when they went to efforts to tone it down for the rest of the less dead races.  And those elves. Humor, fashion sense, arrogance and more all wrapped up into one neat package.  He could talk to any High Elf – or Blood Elf – for hours and lost much time in it.

But now…

He shook his head and ducked into the shop. He was greeted by an elf – with blue eyes.  He was assessed.  And the elf had chuckled.  “You wouldn’t look half your age if you’d … well.  Do you trust me? I can make you look half your years, Archmage.”

“Do your worst.  I certainly can look no worse than I do now, hm?  Perhaps I have spent too long among my books and not enough time out and about.  I feel that should change – and a look to match.”

“I think I can handle that,” the elf said slowly, pulling out a pair of scissors.  He pulled Khadgar’s hair back into a tail, and with a decisive _snick_ , the majority was gone.  The beard was next on the chopping block.

As the elf worked, he blocked the mirror, and kept the mage turned from it when he wasn’t blocking it.

Once he was done, he pulled the dropcloth away, brushed down the mage’s shoulders, and turned him to the mirror.

Khadgar could not speak.  He could only stare.  Years had been stripped away, leaving him looking … half his previous age.  He looked not much older than he was.

“May I suggest going over to the spa – Selnia can take off a few more years, and perhaps, if I may be so bold – those white robes do not suit you.  They wash out your color.  If you’ve the time, make a day of it – go shopping. You look like you could use a little fun.”

He took the advice.  Spas were a new thing to him, and he had no idea what to even say when he arrived there.  He was whisked away, asked a few questions, and found himself soaking first in a tub of very hot water that was full of some herbal infusion that felt somewhat familiar on his skin.  Then he was wrapped in some … paste that felt like it was burning his skin, had it steamed off, and once he was cooled down, moved to a massage table.

An hour later, he lay back, his face wrapped in some more … stuff.  He didn’t ask what any of it was, he just… trusted.

There was much talk of exfoliation, regenerative serums and something called “body scraping” but no matter how he looked at it, he could not find it in him to ask what it all meant.

At least until he found out what body scraping had meant.

When he left the spa, he felt raw, and was sure his skin was very red.  He was advised to stay out of the sun and wind for a day.

The tailor shop was a short trip.  The woman there looked at him, asked what color his skin was usually, stared at his eyes, looked his hair over, eyed him with a look that told him very clearly she was undressing him with her eyes, and then took his measurements, asking questions about his hobbies, his style, his likes, his dislikes, color.  He left in a rather dazed state, informed that his new “regalia” would be delivered in a couple of days.

Regalia.  That was for people with position. Not him.

 

The wrapped packages sat on his bed staring at him.  He stared back.  Finally he sighed and began the task of unwrapping them.

The fabric was a stormy blue, silver accented, fastened with silver clasps and buttons.  They were an Archmage’s regalia – there was no mistaking it.  He ran his hands over the cloth, and it was soft, but it was sturdy.  The leather trim was interestingly supple, and the boots and gloves were of the softest leather he’d ever felt.  The belt was fitted with a silver buckle in a stylized raven, and instead of a sword scabbard, a satchel hung in its place.

He draped his towel over his desk chair and began pulling it all on, and it felt as though he was being wrapped in a second skin.

He could not tear his eyes away from the mirror.  He looked … he looked his age. His actual age. Perhaps a few years older, but then, his hair had been turning white since he was young and had overextended himself.  His hair was silver now, his skin much smoother, and his eyes were clear, the reflection of the color of the new outfit was … flattering.

His heart felt lighter than it had in decades.  He turned from the mirror at last and reached out to take the staff by the door.  He had one more thing he wanted to do before he went to find out what all the fuss was about the Dark Portal changes.  Before he could leave however, he felt the air in the room turn heavy.

The staff he reached for had suddenly been replaced as his hand closed around its shaft.  He stared in numb recognition as the air solidified around him, and he felt a hand caress his cheek, pat his shoulder and lift away.

His hand had closed around Atiesh.

He felt strength fill him – strength he had not felt in years.  It was as though he was sinking into a mana spring.  Or a fountain of youth.

He planted the staff firmly on the floor, and his eyes hardened.

He had a portal to inspect.

 

He stared at the “optimal” spot for his own personal work.  He turned and looked around, looked back at the spot, and sighed.  He could _feel_ his hair lifting in the humidity.

The Horde’s commander’s garrison in Frostfire Ridge would have been preferable to this… this…

Well. He lifted Atiesh and marked the spot with a rune.  It would only take the mage artificers and builders a day or two to have the tower in place.  He knew from experience to stay out of the way as they worked.  He took the time to explore, inspecting the flora and fauna around the area that would be his new, temporary, home.

A runnel of perspiration ran down his back, and he shuddered. This was going to be harder than he thought, but this was the only spot that the ley lines would … cooperate.

He looked out over the cliff face, and realized he had a rather lovely view, though.  The view from his private rooms at the top of the tower would be spectacular – if he was correct, he would be able to see Auchindoun and Shattrath both.  Familiar sights to his eyes, though restored and as they should be, not the travesties he was used to.

He jumped, and slapped at his leg – something had bitten him.  He rolled his eyes and decided that he would go pester one of his commanders for a while.  He could use a dry place to be for a bit, and some conversation.  As he left, Cordana fell into step behind him, and he began to wonder just what it was about him that caused the Warden to decide to follow him here.

 

It was short work, putting his things away.  Books in shelves, aquarium just because, and the public space was completed.  His own room was still a disaster.  He didn’t expect to actually spend much time here, though.

Bed made, desk cluttered properly, personal books in their cases, odd trinkets that reminded him of his various travels and trials.  He eyed the bed wearily.  It was hot, muggy, and he longed to strip his robes off and lie down for just a little while…

“Archmage! The Commander you requested audience with approaches!”

No rest for the weary. Or the wicked.  There was work to be done.

 

Shock.  He could only feel shock as he fell forward, faceplanting into the loam of the ground.  And then the burning began as the poison began to spread.

He should have expected something like this.  Where Gul’dan was, Garona followed. He should have been more careful. He knew better than to work unshielded. How… why…?

His heart would not slow down, and he could not draw breath.  He had to control his breathing, get his heart under control, get the poison to slow.

Voices. There were voices. Panicked voices.

Minutes? Did he just hear minutes? No. No, not like this. Not like this.

 

He struggled to get to his feet. He had to find some way to…

A hand touched his shoulder and a familiar voice told him to be still.  He stopped struggling and couldn’t suppress the pained groan.

“You should see a priest.”

Panic.  “No – no priest. Cordana, stitch me up.” He’d be fine. A priest would know.

The commander stared at him, hard.  His heart sank. Of course. She was a priest.

He ignored the prick of the needle as Jaina’s antidote worked, and feeling returned as the burning receded.

He felt the tug of the thread as it was tied off, and he knew he would have to have his robes repaired – but later. Later. He had work to do.  He got to his feet, wobbled, and steadied himself.

There was work to be done… no matter what Jaina thought about who he worked with.  To the lowest hells and the Nether with her prejudices.

His principles made him stubborn. Not his age.  He ignored her words, and demanded her help.

 

“These are dangerous forces you’re working with, Archmage.”

He knew that.  He wondered how she thought he reached his status.  Surely she knew who he had studied under in his youth.

He winced as his commander fell to her knees, but it couldn’t be helped.  He waited for her to recover, and longed to cast a silence at the leader of the Kirin-Tor as she insulted the priestess, even as said priestess called to the Light to heal the damage, then eyed him.

He met her eyes, and shook his head slightly.  He would not accept further healing from anyone.

He could not retreat to his room fast enough, and he stripped his bloody robes off, leaving them in a heap on the chair.  The stitches scraped against his bedding as he collapsed, and for the first time in what felt like a week, slept.

 

Khadgar cracked his knuckles and set the tablets down, adjusting them carefully in the semicircle.  He stood back, and looked at his commander.  “Stand perfectly still.”

The priestess eyed him warily. The last time he’d said that, she’d smoldered for half an hour.

“This magic is extremely reliable,” he assured her. “And – maybe a tiny bit fatal.”

She shifted again, backing up a pace. “Hold still I said!”

She stood still.  He raised his hands and began casting, smiling slightly when all three tablets responded…

And his eyes grew very round and shocked.  He swore and dug in his satchel as the priestess collapsed.

“She’s not breathing! Khadgar, what have you _done_?! What are you doi—Are those goblin jumper cables?!”

Khadgar ignored Cordana as he placed the cables, trying not to stare at the priestess’ breasts as he clipped them into place and activated them.

“For Light’s sake! SHOO!”

Cordana pulled the cables and placed her hand over the priestess’ heart.  “She has a pulse.”

“Good. I would suggest not telling that paladin outside what happened.”

“You don’t think she will?”

“I… didn’t think of that.”

“It worked… She’s coming around.”

The priestess blinked, slowly, looking up at Cordana, then at Khadgar, who feebly held up the cables. “I maintain a pair of goblin jumper cables for just such an emergency. Are you well, commander?”

He wilted a little under her stare as she got to her feet, and he reached out to steady her.  “I am very sorry.  I…  For a moment I’d thought we’d lost you forever.”  He dropped his eyes, then looked back up. “This ring will serve you well – I have never seen an artifact so powerful and pure of form.” He brightened a little. “It may even be possible to enhance it further… I do not know at what cost.”

At the last words, the priestess glared at him.  She brushed down her robe and he pulled his hand away.

He had to be more careful. He was getting reckless – and while he didn’t care about the cost to himself…

He watched the priestess take the steps down out of the tower and something in his heart shifted.  He head nearly killed someone he was coming to care for.  Worse, he knew what it would do to the next one.  He wondered if he could tune the spell to take his life force instead of theirs.

 

He shifted his weight uneasily as he tried to make out what the priest and paladin were discussing.  They spoke rapidly, in Thalassian, and while he knew the language, they spoke quickly – too quickly, and in low voices.

The priestess pointed upwards, then arced her arm.  The paladin shook his head, then pointed to the right.

Both commanders were driving him batty. Well. More batty. Their methods to his ends had been unorthodox. And they were very much like him, inventive and… and…

WHAT IN LIGHT’S NAME WAS SHE _DOING_?!

The priestess had pulled something from her belt-pouch and ran her hands along it, then shot into the air.  He shot his hand out and wrapped her body in a teleportation spell to bring her back to his side, then turned to her.

“Are you crazy, launching yourself into the air like that! Why not just send Gul'dan a telegram? Better yet, march into the compound at the head of a Brewfest oompah band. This is a stealth mission! Stealth!”

The paladin snickered, then began laughing.  The priestess glared at him, then turned back to Khadgar.  He nearly took a step back as her eyes flashed, her nostrils flared, and she opened her mouth.

She was known to be soft-spoken, sweet, and typically reliable.  She was a healer in all the ways a healer should be – quick thinking, quick acting, and selfless to a fault.

The paladin dropped to his knees still laughing as what came out of the priestess’ mouth scorched his ears.  His eyes widened and he couldn’t stop the blush that crept up his cheeks.

The acts she suggested he perform were not only anatomically impossible, involved several species of plant, animal and mineral and didn’t specify gender, but he didn’t think that a _priestess_ would… well then again, if she was the sort of healer who used intimacy for… but still. He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by some of it, but he certainly wasn’t going to rise to the bait and lend her Atiesh to “shove where the Light doesn’t reach”, that was for certain.

She turned on her heels without waiting for him to respond, applied her foot to the paladin’s rear end, and stalked up the path behind Garona, who had watched the exchange with a hand covering her mouth.

The paladin gasped as he tried to catch his breath, then followed them.

Once they were out of sight, he sighed in relief… then bent his mind to watch their progress – just in case that priestess tried something _else_ stupid.

These commanders were going to be the death of him…

 

He stared at the portal, numbly.  Gul’dan had escaped.  This would mean nothing good. Nothing.

What had he worked for all these past months?  To be betrayed by someone he cared for, nearly killing several of his champions, and for what? This?

He shook his head, even as he conversed with Yrel.  This wasn’t over.  But until something more happened, he wouldn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t follow Gul’dan into the portal. He couldn’t know if .. if…

As he soared back to his tower to prepare to leave Draenor, he wondered where the strike would come.

He had a debt to pay, after all.  Many.

 

Khadgar collapsed onto his bed, closing his eyes.

Long suppressed emotions warred within him, and he fought them down, trying to let his mind work.  He was just glad that he was able to keep his mind on the task at hand as he returned to the tower he had apprenticed in when he was younger.

The memories had crept up – and the image of a younger version of himself talking with Moroes hadn’t helped any.  He had been able to speak of it with the priestess he traveled with, but…

Oh it had hurt.

Once she had gone with the book they had sought, he left the library, and headed back down, blasting stragglers of the invasion as he went, taking his frustration out on them.

The wards were down. The tower was twisted.

He planted Atiesh firmly, and began to call the wards back into place – with _his_ signature laced through them, not Medivh’s. His strength faded as he called. And called.  He would not leave the place defenseless, ruin though it was becoming.  There was still too much here, still too much to be protected.

The wards in place at last, he began to feed them, making them stronger than they had once been.

Getting back to Dalaran had not been easy.  He was empty inside and out, his personal strength and mana drained to nothing, and no amount of tea could bring it back.  He had to rest.

But there was so much yet to do.  Once Modera had a location to begin the search…

The search…

The…

His body stopped.  He had pushed too far.  Sleep overcame him in a sudden wave, sucking him down into darkness and dreamlessness before he could even raise an argument.

And for the first time in thirty years, he did not dream.

 

The move had gone smoothly – much more smoothly than the one to Karazhan.  At least no one was stuck in walls this time… though things were still appearing here and there as their displacement wore off and returned to their proper places.

He leaned on Atiesh as he waited, resting with the others who remained with him on the Council.  He had been so disappointed in Jaina’s reaction, but… there was no help for it.  The Broken Shore had shown him that much.  They could not afford grudges. They could not afford petty arguments.  Now was not the time for it, not with the threat looming over them all.

He waited for a while, until Kalec looked at him, and Modera approached him.

“Go get some rest, Khadgar.  You haven’t slept in days, and it’s starting to show.  If anything serious happens, or someone comes looking for you, we’ll let you know.”  Her voice was pitched low, but a quick glance showed nods around him.

“I… All right.  But if anything, and I mean _anything_ changes…”

“We’ll wake you,” Kalec assured him. “Go. Rest.  I’ll have something sent up to you – you look like you should wrap yourself around a good meal and perhaps a pastry or two.”

Khadgar chuckled weakly. “You know me too well. That sounds like bribery.”

“It is,” Kalec replied, smugly. “Go on.”

Grateful, Khadgar bowed, and started up the stairs, opening a portal to his personal quarters.

He had been moved; his new suite was much larger, and all the more cluttered for it.  He now understood why Medivh’s tower had been a wreck when he arrived.

He shifted several books from desk to bookcase, pulled his notes into a more or less neat pile and stacked them on the side of the desk.  He stared at his bed, which was the only thing that was neat in the room; he did keep it made, just in case.  However, he had tossed several books there while he’d been working.  He sighed and returned them to the bookcases as well.

Another look at the bed, and he snorted softly.  He stripped down, laying his robes on the chair, then hung them in the wardrobe, pulled out a lounging robe and headed for the bathing room.

A hot soak did wonders to restore him just enough to apply himself to the food Kalec had sent up.  It was a significant meal, and he wondered if Kalec was trying to tell him something, even as he nibbled at the roasted … what was this? From the marbling, he guessed bear.  Another bite confirmed it; it was too rich for anything else, and would likely disagree with him in a few hours. The vegetable selection was also roasted and dusted with garlic.  The pitcher however did not contain wine, but a fruit cider that was very refreshing and very slightly astringent.

The strudel was a nice touch to finish the meal.

At least until he realized as he sipped the cider to wash down the last of the apple strudel that said cider was astringent for a reason.

He had just enough time to get to his bed and crawl under the blankets before the potion took effect.  He didn’t even have time to curse.

 

The next few weeks were a blur.  One by one, the pillars were found and set in the portrait gallery.

Diplomacies were dealt with.

Suramar was reclaimed.

And he struggled to keep up.

He was overstretching and it was catching up to him, but there was so much yet to do. Too much to do.

And not enough time to do it in.

 

Returning to Karazhan again was a wrench.  Talking with Medivh had … hurt.

Hearing his name – “Young Trust” felt like a dagger in his heart.  But at least he knew, now, that they stood on the same side.

Regardless of how the world seemed to regard him as the Guardian.

He wasn’t. He wouldn’t. Would _never_.

But at least he knew he could consult his former master when he had questions.  He had only to return… and call.

 

The Broken Shore.

The place he had seen more loss than he ever wanted to again, and yet here he was, talking with Illidan Stormrage of all people, discussing the pockets of trouble that champions were working their hardest to put down.

He was tired.

He was so tired.

Humor was his only consolation.  He heard about it from champions who facepalmed at it, but well… It was all he had left.

At least until the priestess showed up.  She stared through him.

She knew. She had to.

He refused to meet her eyes, and was glad when the paladin pulled her away.

He had to be wary of those two.  And probably many others.

 

And so he stands vigil, waiting for the moment to attack the tomb.

Ignoring his weariness.

Ignoring his loneliness.

Ignoring his emotions.

Exactly how a Guardian should.


End file.
